


i don't want to be your whipping boy

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger and Novak spend some quality time together. Somehow it's still all about Rafa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't want to be your whipping boy

**Author's Note:**

> Set (and originally written) in Spring 2009 while Rafa was sidelined from the tour with injury.

Roger was a good guy and Novak liked him well enough, but things hadn't ever been exactly friendly between them, and certainly not since Roger had unsubtly indicated that he, personally, did not find imitation to be the sincerest form of flattery. Rafa usually proved an effective buffer between them on Player's Council business, but Rafa was off the tour with his knees, leaving Roger and Novak to the dubious pleasure of each other's company.

So far, so civil.

"It's a shame Rafa couldn't be here," said Roger, and Novak _hmm_ -ed in agreement. Roger shrugged. "Never mind. I can email him to say that we started to talk about the scheduling stuff. Or maybe you could," he continued, shooting Novak a sideways glance. "Or tell him. You know, the next time you see him."

Novak didn't really know how to respond to that; there seemed to be a second meaning to the words, like Roger knew about this thing between Novak and Rafa. Novak knew that there had been a thing between Rafa and Roger as well. Rafa didn't talk about it but Novak had the impression that it had been something more than just sex, and that it had ended badly - and well, Mirka was pregnant as hell, so that had probably had something to do with it, too. Novak couldn't really pretend to be sorry about that, but maybe Roger was. Perhaps this was all just a prelude to some unimaginably terrible conversation about Novak's intentions towards Rafa, or perhaps Roger was going to threaten to kick Novak's ass if he broke Rafa's heart. Bad enough that the Spanish players were giving him the collective cold shoulder, like they were protecting Rafa's womanly virtues or whatever, now he had to have it from Roger? Why didn't the ATP just release a collective statement: _try not to be an asshole, Nole_.

"Listen," Novak began, right before Roger leaned in and kissed him.

Well. Okay. Roger was a good kisser, and Novak got the distinct impression that he might actually be a great one if maybe the person he was kissing wasn't frozen in shock. Roger kissed with purpose, and after a second Novak couldn't help but kiss back. Roger brought one hand up to meet the line of Novak's jaw, holding him in place. Roger was the one to pull back.

"Come to bed with me," he said, still so close. His eyes were fixed on Novak's, their edges crinkled just barely in a subtle smile.

"Ah," said Novak. His heart was racing; he felt stunned and slow-witted. "You are -"

"Mirka won't be back until tonight," said Roger. He pulled back a little further, enough that Novak could focus properly. But he kept his fingertips to Novak's jaw, where they made distracting little points of heat against his skin. "Come to bed with me. You don't want to?"

"I -" Novak hadn't ever considered it. Roger was kind of good-looking, yeah, but - Novak just hadn't thought about it. Besides which, this thing with Rafa, whatever it was, it wasn't _exclusive_ , exactly - they both had girlfriends, and they were together too infrequently for any sort of serious commitment like that (and Novak had his suspicions, too, about that famous closeness of the Spanish players) - but it wasn't completely casual either. And besides which, there had to be some unspoken rule of relationships that you didn't fuck the ex of the person you were sleeping with.

Roger didn't seem to have heard of that rule. 

"Come to bed with me, Novak," said Roger again, backing up the request with another quick, firm kiss. 

"You're crazy," Novak said, half-muffled against Roger's mouth. "You're crazy," he said again, as Roger pulled back. Roger just smirked and dragged Novak up by the wrist.

"Wait," Novak said, pausing at the bedroom door, acutely aware of Roger's hand curled around his wrist, where Novak's pulse was pounding in double time.

"This is a Rafa thing," Nole said. "Isn't it?"

"Come on," Roger said, and tugged him in.

-

Roger had a way of insinuating Novak's clothes off his body. He pushed his hands firmly up underneath Novak's t-shirt, palms flat and warm against Novak's sides smoothing upwards to trail his fingertips over Novak's ribs, and then Novak's t-shirt was up and over his head and dropping to the floor in a discarded heap. He was halfway to naked before he even really realised it, his belt undone and his trousers open while Roger was still wearing his track jacket. Novak reached for the zip, feeling suddenly awkward and uncoordinated, but Roger batted his hands away.

"Take your pants off," he said, "and your underwear. And get on the bed."

If it had been Rafa ordering him about like that Novak would have shot back a smartass comment, but things were different with Roger. The tone of Roger's voice was strangely compelling, and Novak found himself doing exactly what Roger had told him to. He stretched out on the bed, trying to feign a nonchalance he didn't feel, and watched while Roger undressed himself quickly and efficiently, folding each item of clothing onto a chair as he went. 

When he was done, he turned and began to walk towards the bed, so that Novak got his first look at the lean lines of Roger's nude body - tanned darker than Rafa, with dark hair across the chest where Rafa was smooth. Slimmer than Rafa across the shoulders, chest, hips. Novak needed to stop comparing them. It wasn't Rafa that Novak knelt up to meet, it was Roger, moving towards the bed with an easy grace.

Roger's hard cock jutted from his body, flushed dark. Novak reached for it, wrapping one hand firmly around the base, and he gave an experimental stroke along the length of it, smooth and firm, quirking a smile at the little involuntary choked-off gasp that Roger made as he did it. Roger stroked along Novak's jaw, then up, raking his fingers through Novak's short-cropped hair. He was used to longer hair, Novak thought, glancing up. Hair that twisted around his fingers. Roger spread his hand flat against Novak's skull, and Novak wondered for a moment if Roger was going to force his head down, make him suck Roger's cock. The thought sent a quick thrill racing through Novak's body. He'd do it, if Roger wanted it. Novak wet his lips, aware of Roger watching him, aware of the pressure of Roger's hand against his head. But Roger didn't force him down; he stroked downwards, running his fingers across Novak's lips, tipping his head back. Not enough to be uncomfortable, just enough to show that Roger was in control. He was used to that, too.

Roger opened his other hand to show Novak what was lying on the flat of his palm: a tube of lubricant, and a little foil packet. Probably not meant for the marital bed, Novak thought. More likely leftovers from - well. Novak glanced back up, found Roger's eyes very dark on his. 

"You'll let me fuck you," Roger said. It wasn't really a question, and required no further answer than Novak allowing Roger to push him down against the bedcovers while Roger climbed onto the bed, to let Roger push and pull and position him exactly as he wanted. 

Novak couldn't imagine Rafa laid out like this - Rafa, who was pushy and demanding in bed, who struggled for dominance every fucking time - or was this where Rafa had learned to get the things he wanted? Roger's firm smooth touches weren't like Rafa's greedy push and shove, but maybe the need for control in them was the same. Roger was just more polished, more practiced. Novak shuddered to think what Rafa would be like if he ever learned to bring that same iron self control to full force in bed. 

Novak was a mess, and Roger hadn't even touched him yet. Roger was barely even fucking _breathing_ hard, only his cheeks flushed as he knelt over Novak, watching him intently. After a moment, he leaned forward slowly, planting his hands firmly at either side of Novak's shoulders so that he could kiss Novak - rough, thorough kisses. Novak stroked firmly along Roger's sides, feeling the hard muscle and ridges of ribs. Roger nipped firmly at Novak's lower lip and the sharp shock of it was electrifying.

"Come on," Novak said. "You are going to take all day?"

"As long as I need," said Roger, but he pushed Novak back on the bed.

Roger took his time, opening him up slow, pausing to bite at the pale skin of his inner thigh.

Did you fuck him like this, Novak wanted to say, but didn't. Instead he ground down against Roger's fingers, gasping at the sensation, twisting to shift them inside him until Roger put a firm hand on Novak's hip, carefully avoiding his cock, the pressure not nearly enough to hold him down but another subtle reminder that Roger was in charge here, and that things would go just exactly as he wanted them. 

"Yeah," Roger said, looking down at his fingers buried in Novak's body. "You like that, Novak?"

Novak gasped, breathless, watching Roger's lips curve into a sharp smile.

"You want me to fuck you?" Roger punctuated the question with a ruthless twist of his fingers inside Novak's body, and Novak swore in Serbian on a ragged, stuttering exhale.

"I didn't hear that. You have to tell me," said Roger, scolding Novak with a pinch to his hip, the quick pain sharp counterpoint to the burning pleasure.

"Yes," Novak ground out, eyes shut tight. "Yeah."

"Say it again."

"I want it, you asshole! I want you to fuck me."

Roger grinned. "Again."

"Fuck me," said Novak, his voice barely more than a growl. He fisted the sheets until his knuckles ached. Fucking Roger, stupid fucking Roger. " _Fuck_ me."

Roger pulled his fingers out and away, the sudden absence of pressure a shock. Novak heard the tear of the foil packet and then, seconds later, the click of the bottle-top, and he opened his eyes to find Roger dumping a liberal helping of lube onto the palm of his hand. Roger tossed the bottle away carelessly, and for the first time, maybe, Novak saw the edges of Roger's self-control fraying, just a little. Roger looked up and saw Novak watching him as he worked himself, and he slowed his movements down to a maddening, measured deliberation. Novak was about to lose his fucking mind. 

When he was done, Roger wiped his hands on the rumpled sheets. "Up," he told Novak. "Over. Hands and knees."

Novak did as he was told, guided by Roger's demanding touch that left warm slick streaks on his skin until he was on his hands and knees, arms extended and fingers clutching tightly at the sheets beneath him. His palms were sweating, and they slipped against the slick silky bedcover. His heart was pounding, part lust and part anticipation, sharpening as he felt Roger's hands on him, spreading his legs wider apart. When he was settled to Roger's satisfaction, Roger put his hands on Novak's hips, leaning close so that Novak felt his cock bumping hard and hot and demanding against his inner thigh.

"Ready?" Roger asked, with surprising gentleness. 

Novak nodded faintly. "Yeah," he managed. "Do it. Come on."

Novak gasped as he felt the first blunt pressure, easing inside his body. "Okay," Roger murmured, "you're okay, you're good," as he inched in, impossibly slow, impossibly controlled. Novak shoved back against him, trying to wrest some measure of control when he felt so open and vulnerable, but Roger's hands on his hips kept him steady, and in the end Novak just hung his head and tried to breathe. 

"Yeah," Roger murmured, when he was pressed flush against the backs of Novak's thighs, and he reached forward with one hand and traced the length of Novak's spine with his fingertips, short nails scratching lightly at the skin. 

"Oh my God," Novak growled, nearly suffocating. "Fuck. Will you fucking move."

Roger kissed the back of Novak's neck and laughed softly, and Novak shivered at the low vibrations. "Are you always so impatient?"

Novak lifted his head, and craned his neck around to glare at Roger. "Are you always such an asshole?" 

Roger huffed another short breath of laughter. Then he moved, once and then again, and the burn of pleasure shocked the breath out of Novak in a ragged gasp. It had been a long time since he'd been fucked and it was good, it was actually pretty fucking great sex, so Novak didn't know why he couldn't stop thinking about all the ways it was different: how quiet Roger was, instead of the half-choked off noises that Rafa would have made, the low streams of Spanish words all run together against Novak's ear; how the pressure was different, the pace, the rhythm and the power; how when Roger draped himself over Novak's back he wasn't broad enough or heavy enough somehow, despite the ache and tremble of Novak's arms as he fought to hold himself up over the bed; how when Roger started to hitch his hips faster and shallower he reached around to touch Novak at the same time and that was wrong too, subtly, the way his hand moved, the friction of the callused palm just off the necessary fraction.

"Come on," Roger was whispering, nearly breathless, against Novak's ear, his breath hot against Novak's cheek. "Come on. Come now."

And he couldn't, for fuck's sake, he couldn't.

Roger dug his neat nails hard into Novak's hips and the sharp little pain sparked through his body, lit up his nerves, completed some circuit from his cock to his brain so that he came with a sharp gasp and his face smashed into the pillow. Roger had collapsed on top of him and it was all so close to being too much, the heat and the weight of Roger's body pressing him down into the mattress while his own body shuddered through orgasm.

After a few breathless moments, Roger rolled away. Novak lifted his head from the pillow, blinking colours away from how tightly his eyes had been shut, and the world seemed hazy and unreal. Roger was the most unreal of all, lying next to him all flushed skin and swollen lips, glassy-eyed, his hair dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead. Novak reached out and brushed the hair away with clumsy, faltering fingers. His arm and his hand felt almost as though they didn't belong to him. Roger smiled and leaned in close to kiss Novak - a hard, demanding kiss, and while he kissed Novak, he reached out and placed the other hand flat against Novak's back, where cooling sweat prickled on his skin, and stroked downwards to follow the curve of Novak's spine until he could trail his fingers down and down until he was pressing against sensitized skin, almost possessive. The touch sent little shivers of sensation sparking brightly through Novak's body.

"This is weird," said Novak. His voice sounded rasping and hoarse. Had he been shouting when he came? He couldn't remember. 

Roger laughed and withdrew his fingers, leaving a wash of emptiness behind. "I can't say I've ever heard _that_ after sex before."

"You know what I mean," Novak said, pushing himself up on one elbow. His body ached already, the glow of sensation burning off to leave him with something like guilt cooling hard and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Roger nodded, soberly. He shoved the hair back from his face with one hand. "Yeah. I -" For a moment, Novak thought that Roger was going to apologise, but he cut himself off abruptly. Novak swallowed, and lay still where he was, watching Roger.

"Listen," Roger said at last, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. "I don't want to rush you, you know, but Mirka's gonna be back in a while, and I should. You know."

 _Clean up_ , Novak thought.

Roger sat up. “You want to shower here before you go?"

"I -" The thought of being naked in Roger's bathroom suddenly struck him as too intimate. Novak eased himself up, acutely aware of his nudity, the heaviness in his limbs and the marks on his body that were fresh evidence of what they'd just done. A place on his shoulder where Roger had bit down stung just a little when he passed his fingers over it; it would probably show. "No - I'll shower back at my room. Will be quicker."

"Okay. You mind if I -?" 

"No." Novak shrugged. "It's your room."

Novak dressed quickly, smoothing the creases out of his clothes as much as he could. The other tell-tales - his flushed skin, the smell of sweat and sex - he couldn't change, he would just have to be quick in getting back to the room. Roger just put on a pair of underpants and track bottoms and stood around watching Novak while he got himself together, and somehow getting dressed in front of him was worse - more awkward, more intimate - than being undressed by him had been.

"Roger," Novak said, when he was finished. "Don't talk to Rafa about this, yeah?"

Roger, leaning against the wardrobe, gave him a small, humourless smile. "Sure."

"It's just - with him and me, you know - and with you and him - "

"Novak," Roger interrupted, and when Novak shut up he shrugged, said, "This wasn't about me and Rafa."

It was a lie - or half a lie - and they both knew it. But Novak only nodded and said, "Okay, yeah," and let it go.


End file.
